


the violence in the pouring rain

by BansheeLydia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anchor Derek Hale, Angst, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sheriff Stilinski Dies, Sheriff Stilinski Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6119602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BansheeLydia/pseuds/BansheeLydia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Stiles lets the storm inside him grow, until there’s a hurricane in his lungs and lightning at his fingertips.  He lets it shake him apart, burn him up, twist and cut and shape him into something new, because his dad is dead from a bullet to the chest and there’s someone out there, hiding in that rain and praying there’s not a storm coming.</p>
<p>Someone who was on the other side of the gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the violence in the pouring rain

It’s raining when John Stilinski dies.

Stiles listens to the quiet rattle of it against the window as he’s ushered out of the room, as Scott reaches out to squeeze Stiles’ shoulder, as Allison takes his hand and says something, as someone tries to talk to him, comfort him, but it all washes over him, drowned out by the patter of rain around them.

It’s funny, because inside Stiles, there’s a storm building. He feels like the world should be falling apart around them, like the wind should be howling and thunder snarling and lightning burning up the skies, everything crumbling around them, but it isn’t, it doesn’t, it’s still and calm and silent beyond the rain.

So Stiles lets the storm inside him grow, until there’s a hurricane in his lungs and lightning at his fingertips. He lets it shake him apart, burn him up, twist and cut and shape him into something new, because his dad is dead from a bullet to the chest and there’s someone out there, hiding in that rain and praying there’s not a storm coming.

Someone who was on the other side of the gun.

*

It’s Derek who finds him hours later.

Stiles didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was in the station, knowing that someone, Scott or Allison or Melissa, would find him eventually. There’d be more tea and platitudes and hugs and that’s not what Stiles needs. What he needs is right here on the board in his dad’s office, pictures and pieces of paper linked together by red strings.

“The police will find him, Stiles.”

He doesn’t bother to turn.

“I’ll find him faster.” 

He listens to Derek’s footsteps coming closer, the creak of the chair as Derek settles into it. When Stiles glances over his shoulder, he’s sat in the chair on the other side of the desk, not the one his dad always sat in, and it’s something so small but it strikes something – gratitude? – calmer, softer, in the chaos roiling in Stiles’ gut.

“You think revenge is the answer.” Derek’s voice is even. No question in it. No judgment, either, but it still makes Stiles’ hackles rise, has him turning to face Derek.

He feels swollen and crushed by his rage all at the same time, tastes blood on his tongue, feels all these nasty, niggling responses creeping through his head. He wants to ask if Derek would do any different, wants to ask him if he would have ripped Kate Argent apart if he got the chance to. 

But he doesn’t.

He pulls it back, takes a deep breath. “He was the only thing I had left.”

Derek makes this quiet noise in his throat, like, _nope_ , and spins lazily from side to side in the chair.

“What?” Stiles snaps.

He leans forward, hands clasped between his knees as he looks at Stiles, his tone gentle as he replies, “You know that’s not true. You have Scott, Melissa, you have the pack. You’re far from alone, Stiles.”

Stiles feels like he can’t breathe for a moment. When no retort comes to his lips, he turns his back on the older man and folds his arms over his chest, staring instead at a grainy picture of a young man in a hoodie that’s pinned to the board.

When he risks a glance behind him a few minutes later, the chair is empty and he’s alone.

*

It’s Derek who finds him two days later.

Stiles doesn’t bother to look up as the passenger door of his jeep opens. Derek settles into the seat, closes the door quietly, and looks out of the windshield at the darkness. The smell of something hot and greasy and delicious reaches Stiles’ nose and for the first time in close to three hours he tears his gaze away from the house a little ways down the street. 

“Chilli cheese fries,” Derek says, holding out the paper pouch. 

Stiles blinks, caught off guard. “Thanks,” he mutters, taking a fry and popping it into his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he ate properly; maybe the night his dad passed, when Melissa encouraged him to eat a bowl of soup. 

“You told me once that no surveillance mission is complete without greasy food.”

Stiles snorts, but he can’t help but remember the night he said that, sat in Derek’s car and trying to distract himself from the sight of Derek in the dim light, beautiful and stoic and so far out of Stiles’ league it hurt. A small ghost of a smile shadows across his mouth at the memory.

“This is where that kid lives?” Derek asks.

Stiles bristles, feels the need to defend, “He’s twenty two. Two years older than me.” _Old enough to shoot a gun and kill a man, old enough to face consequences for his actions._

“You think this will help?” Derek shoots back. 

“He’s a waste of space. Him and his brother, they go all over the country, robbing small businesses, innocent people. My dad isn’t the first person they’ve...” Stiles trails off, inhales sharply. “My dad hated criminals like that, who hurt people for their own greed. He’d want me to stop them. He’d want me to take revenge.”

“John was my friend,” Derek says, a touch of sharpness in his tone, “And I know damn well he wouldn’t want this.”

Stiles laughs wildly, because his dad is _dead_ , so what does it matter at the end of it all? He laughs until he’s crying, tears streaming down his face, stomach aching, and he hunches over and shakes against the steering wheel. Derek stays with him, even as Stiles’ face gets red and snotty, just shifts closer and holds him, quiet and gentle.

It seems like an eternity before Stiles feels calm enough to plead, “Go.”

Derek does.

A few houses away, a window in the one Stiles had been watching goes dark as a light is switched off, the occupant retiring to bed. There’s a gun burning a hole in Stiles’ backseat.

He drives away.

*

It’s Derek who finds him a week later.

He’s looking into the face of the man who killed his father, except this time it’s not in a photograph. He’s crying now, blubbering and snotty, hands shaking and raised. He’s on his knees and there’s a gun to his head.

Stiles wonders, distantly, if this is how he felt when he was the one on the other side of the gun, when he was the one pulling the trigger, killing Stiles’ dad.

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice is quiet. He doesn’t sound scared. He doesn’t sound pitying either. His voice is even and his hand is steady when he rests it gently on Stiles’ outstretched arm.

“This will make it better,” Stiles whispers. “It’ll make me better.”

Derek doesn’t say anything this time. He doesn’t need to. Stiles already knows it, in his heart: no, it won’t. 

“There’s no going back,” Derek says.

“I know,” Stiles’ hand trembles. “I _know_.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

And he sags, body going limp and gun falling to the floor. Derek catches him easily, holds him up and tucks him against his body in a firm hug, keeping him together as the storm rages and rages and then finally stops.

For the first time in days, he feels calm.

The man on the floor is still crying. Derek pulls away long enough to yank him to his feet, to flash his eyes and snarl something Stiles doesn’t hear, but he knows he isn’t going to get shopped to the police for this. 

He’s quiet, just watching, as Derek bats the man aside in disgust and cleans the gun, tucking it in the back of his jeans to dispose of later. He’s quiet as Derek takes him by the hand and leads him out of the house. 

“The cops are on their way,” Derek says. “He’s not getting away with it, Stiles.”

Stiles’ gaze snaps to his face. “You knew they were coming? What if I shot him?”

Derek looks steadily back. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

They’re in Derek’s car and driving away when Stiles hears the scream of sirens. He leans against the door, relief and exhaustion crashing through him, but he doesn’t close his eyes until Derek reaches out to take his hand. Anchored, Stiles falls asleep.

Derek doesn’t let go.

**Author's Note:**

> allirica.tumblr.com - come say hi?


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